


when the days are cold

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mama May + Ducklings - Freeform, Post-Maveth, also May + Simmons, mama may
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 00:10:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6063351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fitz is struggling with his actions on Maveth, and May offers what comfort she can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when the days are cold

**Author's Note:**

> Don't even get me started on my feels about these two. There will be many Fitz-related tears in S3B.

_Your eyes, they shine so bright_  
_I wanna save that light_

\- Imagine Dragons

\---

May lingered as the others dropped off to bed. She wasn’t particularly worried – they’d made it back, they were handling it – but she kept an eye out, as always; making sure, as best she could, that nobody was holding too tightly to things that ought to be let go. First, they talked, a briefing full of praising each other’s successes. They drank to their victory. Then they hobbled off on their own or in pairs to lick their wounds and exorcise their remaining demons.

Pleasantly surprised, and more curious than she probably should have been, May watched Fitz and Simmons disappear together. They were the last to go, leaving her on her own in the living area. As she set the kettle to boil once again, May pursed her lips. Those two were going to be battered over this, but they’d come through it. They always did. The two of them, especially together, had more mettle than she’d ever pegged them for. It was only too bad they’d had to fall into the crucible along with the rest of SHIELD to prove it – but perhaps they’d always been headed for it. They were born fighters, born heroes, under all that fear and protocol.

A movement by the doorway distracted May from what was almost a smile. She looked over to find Simmons, a little shy for having interrupted, but smiling. Proud of herself, as she should be. The burn on her face finally had some salve on it, her wrists were bandaged, and her usually sharp eyes were starting to glaze over. Hopefully, she was so tired she would drop into sleep the second her head hit the pillow.

“Goodnight, May.”

Simmons nodded. May smiled, just enough for Simmons to know what it meant, and nodded back. 

“Goodnight, Jemma.”

Simmons’ smile brightened, from soft and confident, to a flustered, flattered grin. Unsure what to do with herself in this exposed state, she nodded again, and scampered off toward her room. May shook her head as her own smile widened. Ridiculously affectionate, those kids were. Especially Jemma.

It struck her all of a sudden, that Simmons had reappeared without Fitz. So they hadn’t been _together_ together, then. Perhaps they’d gone to the lab for a while, taken comfort in familiar things? Or perhaps they had separated once they’d turned the corner: evidently, Simmons had gone to the med bay to finish patching up in private, and Fitz…who knew where?

May stood, abandoning her tea. On alert, she crept into the hall. She went to his room first, but couldn’t hear so much as breathing. At a glance, the gym was empty and shut down for the night, but there, the lights in the lab were on. This was unfamiliar territory to her. She’d hardly been in the room since it had been refurbished. Her memories of it were of Fitz after the Pod, struggling, suffering and lonely. She hoped she wouldn’t find him that way again. That Simmons had been smiling gave May enough hope that she finally pushed open the door and sought him out.

She found him by the holotable. It was on, but only two-dimensional: backlit blueprints illuminated his face strangely, but it seemed to suit, as he stared strangely at the weapon in his hands. He turned it slowly, and ran his fingers over its surfaces as if studying it anew, trying to memorise it, or get used to the feel of it. May wondered why. He had invented it, and built it from scratch. He knew it inside and out, as well as he knew his own name. Once, she’d asked him how it worked, and he’d hardly taken a breath for a good hour.

The realisation bit her. She should have seen it coming. _Non-lethal,_ he’d always bragged. Its stopping power, its efficiency, its being the epitome of teamwork between himself and Simmons, he was proud of all that too. But always, it had held a special place in his heart because it was a non-lethal weapon that actually worked as a meaningful equivalent to a gun. To jump straight from that, to exploding somebody with a flare gun – anybody, let alone somebody important to him, and to the person he loved most in the world – was a serious leap. No wonder he was reeling so hard. 

“Fitz?” 

He jumped, and the Icer cluttered to the bench. He cursed and picked it up, examining it quickly, although of course it was designed to be more durable than that. After a few seconds, he seemed to realise that of course she must have interrupted him because she wanted to talk to him. 

“Uh…yeah…I mean. Yeah?” 

He put the Icer down so that he could focus on her, but immediately, his hands wanted something else to do. He watched her wander to Simmons’ desk and then to his. She offered him his Rubik’s cube, but when he held his hands out for it, instead of tossing it across to him, she walked, and passed it over the table so that she could look into his eyes.

“You okay?”

She held his gaze, refusing to let go of the cube until he’d answered.

Fitz’ breath caught in his throat. He so desperately wanted to say that yes, he was fine, just shaken and he’d be over it in a bit. He wished he could pretend that he was as resilient as May, and Simmons, and Daisy, and Bobbi – as they all seemed to be, except him. Or at least, he wished he could pass as struggling to deal with it in terms of Will, Ward and Jemma; as if it was removed from himself. But it was not. What he’d done had cut him so deeply, it felt like he might never remove all the shrapnel it had left in his soul.

“Tell me it gets easier,” he begged.

May let go his hand. She couldn’t promise him that, but nor could she promise him what he really wanted. Despite his words, his apparent resignation to the inevitability of becoming a killer, his tearful eyes plead for assurance that there was some other way. For a sliver of hope in his wandering darkness, that the world was not a bad place. That people loved and forgave and sought pleasure and gave joy, just like he had always believed; like he still knew, somewhere deep in his heart, but was struggling to see. He had always tried to be part of that world, but now it was lost to him, shrouded in pain and rage and death. There was no way forward, and no way back, save that he would make for himself. May couldn’t help: she still couldn’t say, even for herself, if she’d have walked a different path if given the chance.

“It’s not your fault,” she said instead. “You did what had to be done.”

Fitz nodded. It was the line they all gave him, the only comfort they had, but where they found protection and reassurance, he found himself losing hope. If this was what had to be done, if the killing would never stop, what were they here for? What were they defending? What was the point of it all?

“That can’t- that can’t be right,” he rasped, shaking his head. 

Tears finally spilled over his cheeks. Air rushed into his lungs and only made it worse. He let the Rubik’s cube drop as he tried to contain himself, gulping down sobs and blinking back his tears, but it was only a matter of time. He could feel the world collapsing around him, everything he’d ever believed burning down in flames. 

Strong arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug. May was shorter than him and clearly not used to hugging, but she held him tightly, and it felt like she was holding the world together, somewhere far above his head and beyond this storm of emotions, where it was safe. Where the best they could do was better than this. Where people still loved and forgave, and spared each other. With hope, his breathing evened out, and eventually, the tears stopped. Only then did May let him go.

Fitz pulled back slowly, still a little dazed from the power of the hug, stunned by how it had quelled such a storm of emotions into the strange, bittersweet cloud that now resided in his chest. May’s eyes held a deep understanding, making any apology or gratitude seem redundant.

“I…should…be getting to bed,” he said eventually. 

“I’ll make some tea, if you’d prefer,” May offered.

Fitz nodded gratefully. As tired as he was – positively drained, after a grueling day that must be somewhere in the 40+ hours by now – he couldn’t face sleep just yet. May gestured for Fitz to lead the way, but as he passed her, she held out a tissue box, and offered him one last piece of advice.

“Always get back up,” she said, “but take your time. There’s no point getting up today just to fall over tomorrow. You don’t have to be okay right now. Okay?” 

“Okay.”

“Good.” She pushed the tissue box into his arms. “Now, any particular tea you’d prefer?”


End file.
